The Wives of Henry Oades. Johanna Moran

brown in her zeal, working up a madwoman’s sweat. Every fingernail, every bodily crease, required her attention. Their undergarments were ruined. It was good to be rid of them. Josephine struggled with the strange skirt, gathering excess fabric in her fists. “It scratches.”

      “It’s clean,” said Margaret. She washed herself last, then crouched awkwardly and exchanged her feculent skirt for the dry one. “Now listen closely, little miss.” She cupped her daughter’s head and whispered directly into her ear. “All shall be fine. Do you understand?” Josephine nodded. “Father is coming for us. In the meantime you must do as I say. It’s not the same now. You must mind me absolutely. Without question.”

      Josephine’s chin trembled. “Mary.”

      Margaret closed her eyes and rocked her.

      A girl brought food, a basket of sweet potatoes, corn, pork, and some reddish elongated pieces, dried past identification. Josephine took the meat with her fingers, chewing listlessly.

      Margaret put restless Martha to her breast. “I’m very thirsty,” said Josephine. Margaret turned to the old woman and pantomimed drinking from a beaker. “Water, please?”

      The rooted woman did not speak.

      “Have you no children of your own, madam?”

      The woman farted, a noxious bleat.

      Margaret clucked. “Why, you rude old trout!”

      “Mama, please.”

      Margaret laid Martha in the scoop of her skirt. “You’ll have a little of my milk.”

      Josephine scowled. “I’m much too big.”

      Margaret stroked her child. “Let’s pretend you’re not.” Josephine came reluctantly. Margaret pushed on her breast to aid the flow, taking the hard teeth like a she-wolf. “Gently does it now.”

      The desiccated woman looked their way. Margaret met the beady black eyes. “Sodding old hag with your dried up dugs.” The woman blinked. “Useless childless thing.” The woman looked away again. “Warts to you,” Margaret hissed.

      Josephine stopped suckling. She nestled against Margaret’s side, raking her tongue along her teeth as if to rid her mouth of the taste. Margaret adjusted her blouse and covered sleeping Martha with her apron. The crone came alive, pointing toward the mats along the opposite wall.

      They crawled over, sharing a mat, Martha beneath one arm, Josephine beneath the other. Insects scuttled in the thatched ceiling above. Margaret drew up the hide of some long dead creature, tucking her big girl close. She ached for John, imagining him frightened and thirsty, biting his bottom lip raw.

      “There’s another matter, Pheeny.”

      Josephine moaned sleepily.

      “When Father comes you are not to call out to him. Do you understand?”

      “He may arrive in secret,” said Josephine.

      “That’s right.”

      “Will he come in the morning?”

      Margaret whispered, “It’s quite possible, sweetheart.”

      “May I ride home with him?”

      “You may.” A gutter of voices could be heard outside, a baby’s far-off cry. They’d sail straight home once this ordeal was over. Promotions, money, and honors be damned. They’d leave on the first ship. Four cots in steerage would do.

      Josephine murmured, “Perhaps he’ll bring the buggy.”

      “He won’t. It’s too large.”

      Josephine yawned a sticky yawn. “The branches won’t allow it through.”

      “Yes. That’s right. Sleep now, my love.”

      “He’ll come,” said Josephine.

      “He will.”

      The grief pressed on Margaret’s chest like a third child. Once her girls were asleep she wept without cessation. Never before had she loathed the world or herself so thoroughly. It had been her idea to move so far out. The fresh country air will be good for the children. Over and over she’d said it, wearing her husband down, getting her tyrannical way finally.

      It was still dark when they came, and bitterly cold. If Margaret had slept she did not recall it. Her body was stiff. She could barely stand. Two short, sullen women led her to the latrine, and with a series of gestures instructed her to clean it.

       Alone

      HENRY SMELLED SMOKE and put the whip to Katie’s rump. A tramp’s cook fire started in the bushes, he figured, with the perfect breeze to bring it straight to his roof. Christ Almighty. He’d be up all night sopping down the bloody timbers. Rounding a stand of karaka trees, the smoldering destruction came into view. Henry called out, expecting his wife to appear, their homeless children clinging. He left the old nag and rig in the road and ran the last distance.

      The fire was giving off the last of its heat. He entered where the door had been this morning. “Meg!” He stood stock still and listened for his family. “Meg, sweetheart.” He said it softly now, taking in the blackened wreckage, his eyes adjusting. In the same moment he saw a few cookpots, John’s lucky horseshoe, Meg’s mother’s ginger jar, and a human body. “Oh, Jesus, please.” He approached disbelieving, falling to one knee. The body was hairless, faceless, and long-limbed, not a child. “Oh God.” He removed his coat and laid it over her, then drew it away again and touched her head. An ashy wet bit of her came away on his fingers.

      He stood in a stupor and called to his children. “John. Pheeny, darling. Dad’s here.”

      He took careful steps, using his hat to gently rake the ashes. He paced off the length, and then the width. Here was something. He bent over, sweat pouring, soaking his beard. He rubbed the shard between his fingers—glass, not bone, a trembling joyous discovery. He started over. Inch by cautious inch he combed the floor for his children’s remains. He went outside and did the same without finding a trace. They were alive then. A fire will always leave something behind. “Kids!” he shouted. They were lurking in the woods above, having fled the fire in time. They’d be freezing, frightened out of their wits. He ran uphill without a lamp, bellowing their names.

      The forest floor was damp and slippery. Henry searched along the quiet periphery, entering the bush from the south. He’d been up here during the day with John often enough, gathering kindling, debating which dogs were best. At night the black trees loomed the same in every direction. Henry ran north; he ran west, climbing deep into the interior. It was after midnight when he quit, exhausted and hoarse. He started down, still calling to them, spotting Mim Bell’s empty rig in the road then, a surge of love and relief rushing through him. The body inside had to be Mim’s.

      Henry untied Mim’s skittish mare from the post and turned her and the buggy around. Meg and the children had somehow managed to escape. They would have found their way to the Bells’, their closest neighbor. Henry rode south a grateful man, a man redeemed. He could not fathom a life without them. He would take them home to England now. They’d endured enough. He planned to tell Meg first thing, the moment he saw her.

      FEAR AND CONFUSION were fully restored by the time Henry reached the Bells’. Meg would not have set out in the cold and hiked the twenty miles with four children in tow, not with Bell’s horse and buggy at her disposal. He pounded Bell’s front door, hearing footsteps after an eternity, muffled cursing.

      Cyril Bell appeared in his nightshirt, holding a lamp. He reached behind the door and brought out a crude cudgel. “Who the devil is it at this hour?”

      Henry stepped into the wreath of light, listening for sounds in the house. “Oades. Henry Oades. We’ve met, sir.” He spoke fast, wheezing